


Thirty Seconds

by nice_girls_play



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Masturbation, Power Play, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nice_girls_play/pseuds/nice_girls_play
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.” Ianto’s not letting Jack off the hook just yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 Torchwood Secret Santa.

“This wasn’t quite what I had in mind… when you mentioned the stop watch…”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. Two minutes left.”

Ianto was fairly certain Jack hadn’t expected him to bring it on their date either. Or, once they brought their first evening alone since Jack’s return back to the office (to that office), order him to strip and have a wank on the nearest desk. All while he remained buttoned up and watching, not a hair out of place.

“Are you surprised I didn’t ask you to wear the coat?”

“Only a little… Those still waters…”

“You’ve got less than a minute. Are you going to keep your eyes open the whole time?”

“Just making sure you don’t go anywhere… Had that happen once or twice… Never went back to that barracks again,” Jack’s hand flew over his cock, mouth growing slack even as blue eyes remained fixed on him.

Ianto swallowed thickly, feeling his stomach rise up to meet the lump in his throat.

“I’m not leaving. Thirty seconds…”

–

He had always been leaving. From the time he was young, Ianto had drifted. Unwittingly at first, then in a careful, premeditated and perpetual withdrawal, removing the fingerprints of other people’s needs and expectations so he wouldn’t have anything to carry with him on the day he finally had to leave for good.

He had never been closer to fleeing than the day his father was lowered in to the ground. He had felt the gale force that had always lain dormant within him gaining speed, picking him up and away (and away, and away) with every breath. His mother and sister, in contrast, had grown more fixed, heels dug in, clinging to each other, to Dad’s memory, to some shadow of an idea of “home” that had never had anything to do with anything he had ever wanted or felt moved to possess. His decades-long quiet retreat had turned into brisk walk and then a run.

He would spend years running to and from various flimsy, temporary safe harbors. Until Torchwood. Until Lisa.

Lisa had never been flimsy or temporary. Lisa was solid, immoveable. The one thing he’d never been able to run away from even when he absolutely needed to. Loving her had grounded him to the Earth and to the other people on it, enabling him to make connections when, before, everyone had just passed through the space around him.

Torchwood London too had gone a long way toward filling the gap. Being the one who's job it was to establish order in chaos. There were schedules to follow and tasks to perform. When the rest of him felt like it could float away at any moment, he knew that he could file invoices and set up phone and e-mail lists. He could log the hours and keep track of payroll. He could research, file, and commission someone in house to digitize the archives. He could make sure the cupboards in the lounge always had boxes of tea and that the kettle was always washed and working.

He could make coffee. He was good at making coffee.

He was good at _all of it_ \-- for the first time in his life.

Torchwood London, the schematics of the building and each floor, the inventories and damage reports and terrible minutiae of running it all had been home. His first home. His only, up to that time. His singular fixed point that had been wiped from the map in a flash fire of monstrous proportions.

Canary Wharf had taken more from him than he’d ever been able to say to anyone. No one got to glimpse that part of him. Not even Jack.

_Maybe_ not Jack. Being Jack, he’d probably guessed all of it already.

–

Jack came with a gasp, painting his belly, sternum and part of the desk he’d been reclining on (whoever “Susan Foreman” was, she probably wasn’t going to appreciate the disarray they’d made of her paper tray). Ianto pressed down on the watch without looking away. Felt his breath rise and fall in tandem with Jack’s. Was only slightly surprised when the other man bolted up through the haze to kiss him, pulling him in close.

That was a bit like… he wouldn’t say home. He couldn’t yet. Not when Jack could pick up and leave again at any point.

He broke the kiss, pulling away to breathe heavily against Jack’s mouth. His belly was still flush against the taller man’s. “I think you just ruined my shirt.”

“I missed you.” His words were clear, solid, and addressed to only him – unless Owen and Tosh were watching on a feed somewhere or hidden behind a potted plant.

He held the watch up, looked at the face. “Four seconds over.”

Jack laughed, inclined his head so he could rest his brow against Ianto’s. “You win. What now?”

“Now, we say good night.”

Surprise flashed in the narrow ring of blue left in the taller man’s eyes. 

“Are you kidding me?”

“How many months without a note, Jack?” he asked, keeping his tone light, allowing a few beats of silence to pass. “If you’d like to talk it over more, I’m available tomorrow night.”

“‘Not going to make this easy, are you?”

“How easy do you think you deserve?”

Jack swallowed; opened his mouth once then shut it abruptly, looking pensive. “7 o’ clock tomorrow? Wagamama?”

“Sounds lovely.”


End file.
